


The Black Order Bar

by darkwing7174



Category: D.Gray-man
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Excessive Drink References, F/M, Heavy Flirtation, M/M, Mafia AU, Mafia Underpinnings, Multi, Underage Drinking, bar au, i have no idea where this is going and i'm keeping it that way, this whole fic is really self-indulgent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-03
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2018-08-28 21:14:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8463187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkwing7174/pseuds/darkwing7174
Summary: Allen Walker really should hate the bar he works at. The bartender’s a sword-wielding prick who calls him a vegetable, his manager invents robots that try to kill him on a daily basis, and don’t even get him started on his crazy, gambling, whore-mongering boss. But somehow, Allen can’t help but love ‘The Black Order.’ Rated for Lenalee’s hostess outfits, Lavi’s potent language and drinks, and Cross and Tyki’s constant law-breaking.





	1. Abandon All Hope, Ye Who Enter Here

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This fic is AU in more than a few ways. Namely, Allen is almost twenty, in college, and working at a bar with a bunch of hot, dangerous people. So he’s more of a horndog than when we see him as 15 year-old adorable Allen Walker. I mean, he’s still adorable in this, but a little less innocent. That’s really the only caveat you need to consider before diving in. Tell me what you think, and hope you enjoy!

“You want me to do  _ what _ ?” Allen nearly dropped the crate of ice hoisted over his shoulder. The bloody thing was almost fifty pounds of slipperiness and condensation, and he had to readjust it to his other shoulder before looking up again at his manager.  

Komui sighed and fiddled with the bridge of his glasses, as if impatient with this slow creature before him.

“I  _ said _ ,” Komui repeated, “that I really need you to wear a skirt for a few days.” At Allen’s gobsmacked expression, Komui continued. “I know this isn’t exactly what you signed up for,” Komui said as water and sweat dripped down Allen’s back, his black ‘STAFF’ shirt clinging to his chest and shoulders from the heat and exertion. “But Lou Fa just quit without giving any notice, and neither Lenalee or Fou can take over all of her shifts. It would just be until I could find a replacement, but I really do need this, Allen.”

Allen finally gave up on the ice, realizing that this conversation was going to take more than a few passing moments. The plastic crate  _ thunked _ on the bar floor. “So one of our hostesses quit, none of the girls can take over for tonight or any other this week, and your first thought was to come ask  _ me? _ ”

Kanda snorted from behind the bar. “From bar-back to hostess,” the black-haired bartender remarked in a mocking tone. 

“Sounds like some kind of demented barroom fairy tale, am I right?” Lavi, the other bartender, elbowed his coworker in a conspiratory way, but Kanda only scowled and moved away.

Allen Walker, 19 year-old bar-back and busboy, a college student in his first year and already possessing exorbitant student debt, leaned hard against the counter and wondered how his life had ended up this way.

Allen had been working for ‘The Black Order’ bar for about six weeks now, and was honestly surprised and impressed with himself that he had managed to survive with all of his limbs attached, both eyes, and his heart beating strong in his chest. Everyone who worked at the Black Order, and maybe even the bar itself, Allen was sure, was trying to kill him.

First of all, there was his maniac of a manager, Komui, a bespectacled MIT grad who in Allen’s opinion had no business running a working class bar in the heart of downtown with his education, and whose hobbies included nursing an extensive sister-complex and inventing tiny robots and machines for “security purposes” that shot actual  _ bullets _ at anyone not fast enough to disable the system. 

The object of Komui’s sister-complex was 21 year-old bubbly, lovely Lenalee, who worked as hostess, bartender, expo, and waitress whenever needed. She was also the de facto manager whenever Komui wasn’t around, and for all purposes his second-in-command, getting all the other workers into line easily with a clipboard and a wink. 

She’d never outright tried to kill Allen, but she was deadly all the same. With her long pigtails, dark lashes and soft-lipped smiles, and sheer expanse of creamy, toned legs made visible by the short hostess skirts she wore, she was just guaranteed blood-loss waiting to happen. Through nosebleeds, or unplanned boners, or most of all Komui’s threats. 

Allen recalled one incident in which he had glimpsed Lenalee as she leaned over the bar counter in her skirt, the fabric rucked up so high that Allen could see just the edges of her generously curved ass and a scrap of pink lace that must of been the start of her panties.  _ Or thong? _ He had wondered.  _ Panties or thong? _ Just as his mouth had gone completely dry and the blood had begun rushing to his groin, Allen froze as he heard an unexpected voice right at the shell of his ear. 

“ _ Stare at my sister for even a nanosecond longer, and I will pluck your eyeballs from your head and stuff them down your throat.” _

So yeah. Lenalee in a whole manner of different ways presented a constant threat to his health. 

Then there was Kanda, one of the senior bartenders at ‘The Black Order.’ He was somewhere in his twenties, Allen didn’t know for sure, but clearly in the peak of health and physical condition. His work wear always consisted of tight-fitting muscle shirts that showed off every inch and ripple of his impressively muscled frame, and low slung pants or jeans that always exposed a sliver of a rigid six-pack or a jagged hip. 

Allen would be lying to himself if he didn’t admit to spending more than a few nights imagining those hips grinding against his when the hour was late and lonely. But Allen  _ did  _ refuse to admit it to anyone but himself. 

Because it turned out that Kanda was a prick and a right  _ bastard _ when dealing with anyone (and it seemed especially so when dealing with Allen) and never hesitated to remind Allen that he stayed in such good shape because he practiced with his  _ katana _ every day. Euphemism notwithstanding (Allen had almost been gutted by the man when he’d raised one of his brows in a leering way) Kanda actually did in fact  _ keep his sword with him  _ at the bar. And Komui let him. And customers even found the blade-wielding at the bar somehow...appealing. 

Okay, Allen could see how it was appealing, but not when the sword was raised at  _ him _ . Allen knew from experience that Kanda would actually use the sword when pressed or annoyed, and it was only because of Allen’s natural reflexes and extensive physical training that he’d ended up with sliced clothes instead of skin, and was absent a only few locks of white hair instead of fingers, limbs, and organs. 

Kanda’s sword-wielding  — and his reputation for being not only adept at it but enthusiastic at displaying that talent  — enabled him to work as a bouncer during late nights when their regular bouncer, Noise Marie, took time off. 

But Kanda’s primary job was being a bartender. Well, that and being gruff and cocky and generally an asshole to everyone around him. (For some reason, people seemed to love this, which pissed Allen off, especially since he kind of secretly found it hot.) 

Lavi was an entirely different story. Where Kanda was bitter, smirking, and terse, Lavi was charming, smooth, and gregarious. The red-headed, eye-patched bartender was a riot of wry grins, insinuation, and devilish flirtation. His drinks were always made with an extra twist that differed from the offered choice, and he made a point of never leaving from a night shift without taking someone home with him, be it customer or coworker. Lavi got more phone numbers, propositions, and referrals than anyone else at the Black Order. His tip rake was always the highest of any night he worked.

Lavi had also, Allen figured, never outright tried to kill him. But there was still the issue that the bartender insisted on giving him countless end-of-shift free drinks every single night he worked, never mind that Allen was under-age. The drinks were always numerous and potent, and no matter how often Allen demurred, Lavi always managed to rile or cajole or sweet-talk him into it. At this point, Allen wasn’t sure if Lavi was trying to seduce him or poison him. 

Then there was Fou, part-waitress, part-bartender, whose bark and bite were equally lethal. And Miranda the server and kitchen expo whose general clumsiness never affected her but always endangered others with flying plate shards and boiling water and fallen food crates. And Bak, and Lou Fa, and Noise, and Chaoji, and Krory...Everyone who worked at or with ‘The Black Order’ bar had proved to be life-threatening in some way.

Allen had never met the owner of the esteemed and notorious bar at which he had worked for over a month, but going by the rumors and vague descriptions, Allen had genuine suspicions that Cross Marian may actually be a bona-fide mob-boss.

The Black Order was clearly dangerous, maybe even lethally so. Allen had survived so far, but  _ this? _ Had it really come to  _ this _ ?

“What’s going on?” Lenalee flounced over to where Allen was bracing himself against the bar, short skirt fluttering and pigtails bouncing, looking wonderful and illegal all in the same flowery breath. She turned to Komui when Kanda and Lavi said nothing. “Allen’s going to be the new what?”

“Hostess,” Allen croaked. 

“Actually, beansprout, it’s called a ‘host.’ Unless you’re wearing the outfit...in which case, yeah, you’re gonna be the new hostess.”

“Kanda,” Komui turned to the bartender. “Do you mind grabbing a spare hostess outfit?” Kanda disappeared into the back room. 

Allen wheeled toward Komui desperately. “But...But. I’m a guy! I can’t wear that — it’s — ”

“Ahh come on, Allen.” Lavi flung his bar rag over his shoulder and waggled his brow in his approximation of a wink. “I’m sure you’ll look just as cute as any of the other girls in it. I mean sure, maybe you’re not, ah, as well-endowed as Lenalee — ”

“ — is that supposed to be a comment on my weight — ”

“ — what did you just say about my precious little sister — ”

“Ow, geez! Sorry! Christ…No need for the clipboard, Lena.”

Kanda came back from the back room to swing a fresh hostess outfit over the bar top between them. It consisted of an abominably shortened school girl skirt, and a tight, low-cut shirt bearing the Black Order logo. 

Kanda broke his traditional scowl to grace Allen with one of his vicious smirks. “See,  _ moyashi _ , there’s no need to get all panicky about it. You’ll look just as cute in the little skirt as all the other pretty girls.”

Allen whirled around and seethed: “I swear to God, you girly-haired prick — ”

“Excuse me?  _ Girly-haired? _ You — ”

Komui broke in. “Enough. Allen, the skirt’s only until I find a replacement. And there’s really no one else. Krory can take over your bar-back duties. And before you ask, no, Krory cannot be the hostess replacement.” Komui cut Allen off before he could protest. “Krory, unfortunately, is not nearly so…” He seemed to grasp for the right word.

“‘Hot’?” Lavi offered. Komui scowled at him while Lenalee chuckled in what Allen hoped was agreement. He also tried his best not to feel nervous and tingly and flattered at the red-head’s opinion of him. 

“ _ Personable _ , is what I would have chosen to say,” Komui huffed. Kanda scoffed at this, and Allen glared at the man.

“It’s just…” Allen began another feeble round of protests, even though he knew his defenses were crumbling. No matter how Allen wished he didn’t have to wear that ridiculous skirt, he  _ did _ work for the Black Order, and the terms of his employment and nature of his student debt left him with little other choice. Komui cut in with his final trump card.

“You’ll be paid the hostess rate,  _ and _ you’ll be tipped out every night for your trouble.” After a pause. “And you’ll get two free shift meals.”

That did it. Hostesses made way more than bar-backs in a flat, hourly rate, but usually never got part of the gathered tips at the end of the night. If Allen did this, he’d be making more hourly in addition to his tips, and he wouldn’t have to beg their cook, Jerry, for extra food at the end of the night, since he was only given the one free meal at the end of his shift and his voracious appetite was never satisfied with just the one. 

“Do we have a deal?” Komui asked, brow raised. 

Allen tried not to notice how Lenalee and Lavi were leaning forward with interest, and how Kanda was pretending not to listen or care how Allen would answer. 

Allen gave a great sigh. “Yes, we have a deal.”

Komui nodded, and Lenalee gave a cute little clap. Lavi whooped and said something about making sure to come in early the next few days to appreciate the view when he wasn’t so busy. Kanda sneered and muttered something crude about short skirts and exposed balls. 

And Allen looked up towards the ceiling and whispered, “This place is going to kill me.”


	2. There's Still Light In Limbo

_Poppoppop. Thudthudthud._

Allen winced when three bullets dragged fire across the air in front of his face. If he hadn’t heard the minute click of the trigger the instant before, those bullets would have been embedded in his head. He glared murderously over at the ‘security measure’ hidden in the door frame as if it was a miniature Komui, laughing at him.

“Just another day on the clock,” Allen muttered darkly. The wood paneling of the back entrance to the bar was already riddled and chipped from many previous ‘security measures.’  He stepped through the doorway; his adrenaline-fueled instincts told him there were no more devices implanted at the door. Not that his life wouldn’t be in constant compromise now that he was inside ‘The Black Order.’

Once inside, he went to the back room and changed into his bar-back uniform. He had to bite back a curse when he was pulling his shirt over his head and all of the muscles in his torso protested the movement. Every single morning Allen put himself through a rigorous training regimen, incorporating martial arts, boxing and bag-work, and endless repetitions of bodyweight exercises. Since working at ‘The Black Order,’ Allen had only increased his efforts. Now, while grimacing at the constant soreness that plagued his body, he did have to admit to a certain “oh well”-kind of satisfaction that at least he would look fit as hell while wearing the next-to-nothing hostess uniform that evening.

“Oi.” A voice right behind Allen made him startle. “Walker, move your lily-white ass out the middle of the fucking door.”

Allen turned from where he was standing in the doorway of the back-room, shirt half-on. “Hey, Fou. How’d you get passed the bullets?” In fact, Allen realized he hadn’t even heard the trigger go off.

The five-foot tall bartender tossed him an unimpressed snarl. “It can’t be such a Mission Impossible if _you_ made it through.”

“Thanks, Fou.”

“By the way, Krory needs you at the bar. And get me my shift drink while you’re at it.”

At some other point in his life, Allen might have balked at being ordered around like he was a servant, especially by a spitfire of a girl a head shorter than he was. But the Black Order was quickly granting him the impression that the shorter the girl was, the more dangerous she was inclined to be.

Allen sighed and finished tugging his staff shirt down over his stomach. At the bar, Krory was pacing nervously — _like he’s the one who has to wear a skirt tonight_ , Allen thought, heart sinking — and felt his heart sink further when he noticed who was the only one on duty at the bar.

Kanda didn’t look up from polishing some highball glasses when Allen approached and knocked his knuckles against the counter.

“Fou would like her shift drink,” Allen said, and then added after a beat: “When you get the chance…”

Kanda only sniffed in response, as if unimpressed with Allen’s attempt at civility with the other man. “We’re out of Grey Goose,” Kanda finally said, eyes still on his work.

Allen suppressed a groan and an eye-roll that would have left his head spinning. Communicating with Kanda was always an arduous process. Like trying to shake candy out of an empty piñata. But sharing a shift with Fou when she hadn’t had her shift drink was downright impossible, so Allen pressed on when all he wanted to do was hit Kanda over the head with his own sword.

“Use another vodka then. I don’t think she minds Absolut. Come on, you know how she gets.”

Kanda curled his lip just then, because Allen knew Kanda was certainly aware how Fou got. Even when Fou was in a good mood she was a daunting opponent in verbal _and_ physical spars. Though all outward appearance suggested that she was just a sweet girl with the stars shining in her pretty violet eyes, Fou was a force to be reckoned with, even within the Black Order.

Kanda _knew_ this. Even so, the bastard just had to press his buttons.

“Say _please_ .” Kanda met Allen’s eyes over the counter with a self-satisfied smirk. Allen’s jawbone popped he grit his teeth so hard. _That’s it_.

“What? Is a simple Moscow Mule too complicated for you, Bakanda? You know, I was aware that you probably had a job here only because they felt so sorry for you, but isn’t that just kind of pathetic?”

Tempered steel struck out towards his throat. But Allen had already dodged, face cool, even if in the back of his mind he was impressed as always with just how fast Kanda managed to get sword from hilt. He dodged another jab at his throat, and then deflected an upswing with the back of his hand against the flat of the sword, just narrowly avoiding being sliced by its honed-edge. Allen’s confidence on placing a bare hand on the naked steel had its desired effect, however: Kanda’s face washed in fury. He thrust up to prepare for a downswing that might have cleaved the bar top clean in-half, but just then a timid voice cut in.

“Um, Mr. Allen…”

The two men rolled their eyes and some of the tension deflated. Only Krory would call someone twenty years his junior ‘mister,’ even when said person was currently defending himself from _katana_ strikes.

Krory proceeded to angst about his concerns over taking over Allen’s duties for the next few nights, like how he was supposed to be able to lift ice like a much younger man, and what happened if he broke glass and drew some blood from a customer by mistake, and—

“Krory. You’ll be fine. Now if you’ll excuse me—” Allen looked up as Komui caught his eye and gestured to his watch. It was 5 PM. “—I have to go change into a skirt.”

Kanda handed him a fresh Moscow Mule as he passed, (somehow he’d managed to make the drink in just the few moments Krory had distracted him, being the show-off asshole bartender he was) and whispered evilly, “ _Best of luck, Walker-chan._ ”

 

* * *

 

Allen wasn’t going to lie. The skirt was actually pretty comfortable.

Sure, it was a little on the breezy, drafty side. And he was constantly readjusting it and his legs and making sure he wasn’t flashing ass or, well, _other_ parts of his anatomy. And that asswad Kanda hadn’t stopped smirking at him since the moment he put the skirt and tight top on (which had been hours ago).

But so long as he wasn’t running or jostling around too much, the skirt was the most comfortable thing outside of total nakedness that Allen had ever experienced.

_Is this why girls wear skirts?_ he wondered. No wonder Lenalee was always flouncing around in them. Although, he had twice as much sympathy for her now that he understood just how, er, _attracting_ tiny school girl skirts could be.

“Welcome to The Black Order,” Allen beamed with gritted teeth, twitching the hem of his skirt down further over his legs. “How can I help you?”

Just like every other group he had greeted for the past two hours, and the past few days besides, he got a double-take. A weighted look. Raised brows. And then, inevitably, the leer.

For some reason, no one who saw him in this getup found it nearly as ridiculous as Allen felt in it. He supposed it helped that he had a naturally androgynous face, and his fine white hair made it so his leg hairs weren’t glaringly obvious. But _really?_

Allen wasn’t a huge guy, but he knew he had musculature that most girls simply didn’t posses. And his voice, when he spoke, was clearly masculine. But for some reason he was getting as many numbers and flirtations and come-ons as any of the girls who’d ever worked the hostess stand. From girls and guys and even super _straight_ guys.

He’d had girls whispering and giggling to themselves about whether he was blond or truly white-haired, whether the carpet matched the drapes, whether the mark down his left eye was a tattoo or a scar. (It was a birthmark, actually. Not that any of these people had straight-up asked him.) He’d had guys asking him his workout regimen, his preferred drink, advice at talking to the female bartenders. He might have told them they’d have better luck asking a squirrel out than getting anywhere with Lenalee, except the overwhelming approval and attention he was getting walking around in a skirt was _freaking him out_. Did none of these people — whether they ultimately found it appealing or not — suspect that anything was out of the ordinary?

_Must be the power of skirts_ . _It has to be_.

Allen hardly believed that the world had become so enlightened as to accept gender-fluid clothing choices without batting an eye. All the smirks, hooded glances, and folded squares of paper with phone numbers on them must just be a result of the powers of the hostess outfit.

Another two customers walked through the door.

“Welcome to The Black Order, how can I help you?”

Allen was ready for it: the double-take, the raised brow, the leer. It was a man and a woman—or a girl. She was so short and pixie-like Allen couldn’t tell. He did figure that the two were related however...and whoa...

Now it was Allen’s turn to double-take. These two new customers were some of the most savagely beautiful people Allen had ever seen. They looked like Brazilian models—richly tanned skin, hair thick and black, and eyes that were molten gold.

“Oh?” the man drawled. “I wonder if you can, in fact, help us.” Something about his voice reminded Allen of the great rumbling purrs of wild cats, dark and lulling and edged with danger. His bright gold eyes held Allen’s for what felt like minutes but couldn’t have been more than moments. Then the woman-girl spoke, and Allen had to restrain a shiver at _her_ voice.

“Or perhaps,” she hummed, voice like wild honey, like a sweet, sticky trap. “ _We_ could help _you_.”

“Ah...um...well I—” These two could be twins, enchanters, for they were so alike. Enthralling and hazardous. Allen could barely string two words together. “Did, uh….did you two want a table? Or shown to the bar?”

“Allow us to introduce ourselves,” the man spoke, bending down in a sarcastic approximation of a bow. “I’m Tyki Mikk.”

The woman stepped closer to Allen. She was almost a head shorter than Allen, and ran one lacquered nail along the side of his thigh, maintaining eye contact the whole while. Feeling utterly entranced, not knowing if he hated that or liked it, Allen could only stare at this strange, lovely creature. “And I’m Road Camelot,” she continued, in that musical, chaotic lilt. “We were hoping to locate your boss. Although, meeting you has certainly been a greater pleasure.”

“I...thanks. You’re looking for Komui?”

“Cross Marian,” Tyki said. “I take it he’s not in?”

“Er...no, I’m afraid not.” These people sure had an elegant way of speaking. It made Allen feel like he was being dissected somehow.

Road only shrugged, making even that mundane gesture fanciful-looking. “Another time then. I wouldn’t mind coming back now that I know what the company is like.” She gazed up at him through her long, sooty lashes. God knew what they saw in him, Allen thought, heart pounding. He hadn’t put one coherent sentence together since they stepped through the doorway.

As the two of them backed out of the doorway, Tyki caught his eye one last time. “And if we happen to meet again, what is your name?”

The words came out of his throat without Allen being conscious of it. “Allen Walker.”

They left, and it was only afterwards that Allen realized that not only had he given his name out to two absolute strangers who weren’t even bar patrons, but they had been asking after his boss. Or his boss’s boss. Cross Marian. A man he had never met, but according to rumor, ruled the entire surrounding city blocks, half the businesses, and half the local police department.

“Oh shit,” Allen murmured to himself. And they’d taken an interest in him. For some inexplicable reason. Probably all because of the fucking skirt. “Fuck.”

 

* * *

 

It was sometime past one in the morning, and Allen was suffocating. But, as his mouth curled into a grin, not in a bad way. There was a crush of bodies around him. The bottoms of his shoes were sticky with spilled alcohol. Someone’s hand was on his ass. Tequila raced and burned its way down Allen’s throat as he finished his third shot in as many minutes. Allen’s shift had just ended, but last call wasn’t for another three hours. And, inexplicably, he was still wearing his skirt.

“And let us all give three cheers for the lovely Allen Walker,” Lavi was yelling over the din, pouring shots in a giant line across the bar. “Who, girl or guy, gay or straight, made us all question our sexuality tonight. Hip, hip—” He knocked back his shot; everyone at the bar, including Allen, followed suit. “—HOO-fucking-RAY.” The bar broke out into drunken cheers and Allen felt clapping on his back and kisses on his cheek.

Everyone, staff and customer alike, was in good spirits due to a roaringly busy and successful Thursday night. Komui had actually congratulated Allen on a job well done when he’d handed him his tip rake of the night. Lavi, Lenalee, Kanda, _and_ Fou were all working the bar because it was so crowded, and all of them insisted on giving Allen as many after shift-drinks he wanted. Even Kanda was in the best mood Allen had seen him in, and it was no surprise why; the bartenders had another three hours to work, but even if the night ended now, they’d all still be cashing in on the biggest tips they’d made in the past three months.

When Allen reached for another shot already lined up for him, a hand grabbed his wrist to stop him.

“You sure you want to keep chugging, beansprout?”

Allen glared, but Kanda’s tone lacked any of his normal vitriol. Hell, the man even had a coy kind of smile going on and humour in his eyes. Allen vaguely wondered if maybe this was the first time he’d seen Kanda actually _smile_ instead of smirk or sneer.

“And why should _you_ care?” Allen demanded. But any anger in his voice was slurred away. He was just too pleased, the night was too carefree, the tequila might have been hitting his system pretty hard just about now…

Kanda’s hand was still on his wrist, and Kanda leaned forward to be heard over the bar noise and in a growled kind of whisper said: “Because you’re two shots away from letting the person nearest you just take you against the bar...And in that skirt I don’t doubt a lack of volunteers.” And here a familiar wicked glint entered Kanda’s dark eyes, and Allen swallowed hard.

“But aren’t _you_ the nearest person to me now?” Allen replied in a voice just as low and husky. Something in Kanda’s eyes changed, a flash of something, but then Fou was reaching over the counter to slap his back and crowing in his ear.

“Drink up, Walker! Tonight you’re a king!”

Lenalee pressed another shot into his hand, her cheeks rosy, and Kanda let go of his wrist and disappeared to take care of the hundreds of other customers swarming around the bar. Allen pressed the shot glass to his lips, but only downed a sip of it. He really was drinking rather quickly. A glance at the four bartenders working told Allen that despite taking numerous shots and drinks along with the customers, none of them seemed compromised by the alcohol. Lenalee’s cheeks were red and her grin stretched especially wide, but her steps were sure and eyes shrewd. Kanda, Fou, and Lavi all looked like they were in complete control of themselves, and must have crazy alcohol tolerance. Especially Lavi.

Allen let himself gape at the eyepatched bartender. Lavi had probably had more to drink than Allen, and he was still serving and jesting and more charismatic than anyone else in the building. Allen knew that this was why Lavi made so much money. Every night he made bank in tips, but on a night like this, when the liquor flowed like god’s nectar and the area was packed, Lavi was irresistible.

At the moment he was tossing various liquor bottles in the air in a show of juggling, and what might have seemed corny by anyone else appeared only magnetic and appealing when Lavi did it. He looked like the best kind of drunken pirate: gold glinted at one of his ears, sheets of his thick red hair were messily ruffled, that green eye winking like an emerald and an eyepatch over the other.

Lavi’s eyepatch was something of an enigma. Some customers figured he just had a disfigured eye, others swore he only wore it for the roguish appeal it garnered from the ladies, and quite a few men besides.

Despite all the high-stakes bets and coaxing and sheer amount of alcohol purchased for Lavi in order to ply the drunken truth from loosened lips, Lavi never let on, and his eyepatch remained a mystery. Allen was just thinking that it had to be a fake eyepatch—Lavi was far too aware and well-versed in mystery and appeal for him not to realize what a cash-cow it was—when someone grabbed his shirt, lifted him over the edge of the bar, and kissed him like they were about to drown at sea.

_Who the hell_ —

Lavi was still juggling bottles, and Lenalee was just now turning to stare and then giggle at him. And Kanda was…

Kanda was just giving him a raised-brow pointed look as he salted the rims of a few martini glasses. Which meant…

“Mmm, you taste just as good as you look, Walker,” Fou grinned, licking her lips. A raucous cheer went up around Allen as bar patrons clambered around asking where _their_ kisses were. And as Allen fell back over to his side of the bar counter, scrambling backwards to try to flee from the sudden mad-house around him, he wondered to himself how he’d ever let himself agree to wearing a skirt.


	3. Speak of the Devil and He Appears

Twisting his keys into the lock, Allen stumbled into his dark apartment. It was cramped and crumbling and on the fourth floor of a building with no elevator, but it was home. Allen collapsed against the side of his fridge (which was right next to his door) and let out the longest sigh of his day, and there had been many that day. 

It was 3 AM. Not quite closing time yet, but way past when Allen’s shifts usually ended. He groaned and rubbed his eyes, as if that might slough away the remnant alcohol still rollicking around in his system, and thanked the gods that it was summer and he didn’t have a class to get to early the next morning. 

Allen staggered a little when a sudden weight  _ whumped _ against his head, and began to chuckle softly when the weight settled on his head, claws lightly dug into his white hair, and a striped, furred tail twined against the back of his neck.

“ _ Mrrreoow,”  _ came the rumbling greeting.

“Hello, Timcanpy.” Allen reached up and scratched his orange tabby under the chin, and smiled when his cat started up a purr that vibrated through Allen’s skull. “Thanks for keeping the place safe for me while I was out.”

Allen pushed off from the fridge, Timcanpy still perched on his head, and walked further into his apartment. He set his keys down on the counter, maneuvering in the dark, and grabbed an old mug of tea that was still sitting on the arm of his couch. 

The tea was cold, but Allen gulped it down anyway. He had no water in the fridge and the faucet water wasn’t safe to drink. After he downed the cup, Allen wiped his mouth and wondered once again if Lavi was purposefully trying to give him alcohol poisoning.

The redhead had been  _ particularl _ y insistent on getting him to drink after his shift, and Allen had ended up staying two hours past his shift-end soused on double-strength Cuba Libres with an extra shot of lime liqueur and a dash of hot sauce. While Allen had no notion of the number of drinks he’d downed while at the bar, he had a keen memory of the exact number of times he’d almost thrown up on the sidewalk on his walk back to his apartment. (Four. The fifth time, he’d thrown up in his neighbor’s rose garden — some fop’s named Leverrier — and found that his head and stomach cleared up significantly afterwards.)

Allen brushed Timcanpy from his head and stripped off his shirt and pants. The minute his shift was over, Allen had changed out of the hostess skirt and top, comfort be damned. 

Clad only in boxer-briefs, Allen stumbled over to his rumpled bed and idly hoped that he wouldn’t wake up with a hangover tomorrow when a knock sounded on his door. 

Allen scowled and looked over his shoulder. The knocking continued. It was past three in the morning, he was tired, still slightly drunk, and he had just gotten back from an eight hour shift at a bar that was constantly threatening his life. Whoever it was, Allen decided, they could go to hell. 

Allen crawled into his bed as the knocking became insistent, and then turned to banging. Allen was just about to mutter a curse and grab a pair of headphones when the knocking stopped and an eerie  _ snick _ sounded at his door. 

“What the—”

The lock on his door clicked open, and Allen was out of bed, a discount floor lamp in his hand, and was storming towards the front door ready to beat the eyeballs out of whoever dared break into his apartment when Lavi walked in through his front door. 

“Yo.” Lavi’s roguish grin was clearly visible through the dark apartment. “You gotta come with me.”

“ _ What?”  _ Allen tried not to screech. He may not have succeeded. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Instead of giving him a response, Lavi raised his visible brow and went, “Mmph. It’s pretty dark in here but thank god my night vision’s not too bad.” He gave him an appreciative up-and-down glance, and Allen remembered he was wearing nothing but his underwear. 

Allen set down the lamp. Rather than attempt to cover himself up and lose face in front of the suave bartender, Allen only crossed his arms and stood straighter. It wasn’t like he had anything to hide, and his hostess uniform didn’t leave much to the imagination anyway so Lavi wasn’t really seeing anything new. Still, he knew Lavi was able to see a line of tattoos — intricate knife designs — over his left shoulder that were usually covered up by his shirts. And while anyone would have been able to guess from the tight fit of the hostess top that Allen had a sculpted chest and six-pack, it was quite different to see it in-person and bare. 

Allen could see Lavi’s gaze go from the tattoos at his shoulder, to the scar over one rib, across the hard planes of his chest and abdomen, to settle on the trail of hair leading down from his navel.

Even though he was in his own goddamn apartment and he was standing confident and he had nothing to hide, Allen still felt his skin prickle at the unapologetic, brash gaze Lavi was laving over him. He kept his facial features clear and steady, but his breath was still catching in his throat.

Allen forgot how to speak for a few moments as the older man locked gazes with him, and that light, humorous green eye suddenly went sly and predatory. Allen let a brief shiver overtake him and goddamn it he was still drunk...And then just as suddenly Lavi broke his gaze, looked over Allen’s shoulder, and said in his normal cheery tone: “Looks like you lost me some money.”

Still slightly poleaxed by the chain of events that had occurred, Allen responded intelligently: “Huh?”

Lavi walked further into his apartment and gestured over Allen’s shoulder, back towards his bed. Allen noticed that Lavi had changed out of his work attire, although the eyepatch was still there. “Kanda and I had a bet,” Lavi said. “On whether or not you’d have someone in bed with you when I came to retrieve you.”

_ Retrieve  _ him? Oh. That’s right. Lavi had burst into his apartment in the middle of the night demanding that he come with him. Then Lavi’s newest words caught up with him.

“You assholes made a bet on whether I’d have someone in bed with me?! And you—” Allen startled as he put the unsaid words together. “You bet that I’d—”

“Yep,” Lavi cut in. “And what a shame that I lost. Now I owe that bastard twenty percent of tonight’s tips. Although…” And here Lavi came up so close that Allen almost took a step back, the bartender looming over his shorter frame, his breath ghosting over Allen’s lips. “We could always say that you had someone in your bed  _ after  _ I came in…”

Allen gulped and his skin tingled and he felt both immediately sober and far more intoxicated at the same time as he looked up into Lavi’s eye and saw the meaningful glint there. And then, just as quickly, Lavi’s entire demeanor changed  _ again.  _

“But!” Lavi took a step back, grinning like he hadn’t just practically propositioned Allen while he was in his underwear. “Unfortunately we’ve got a schedule to keep to. So chop, chop. Let’s go.”

Allen struggled with words and thoughts and such basic functions like breathing before he was able to cobble together a sentence. “And if I say no?”

“Ah, you can’t say no. The boss wants to see you,” Lavi said. At Allen’s confused expression, Lavi continued. “You know, the boss-boss. Cross Marian.”

Cross Marian. Allen’s manager’s boss, Komui’s boss, the owner of the Black Order bar that had been trying so hard to kill him. And also, if Allen wasn’t mistaken, an actual mafioso-type boss. 

Fuck.

Allen groaned. “Let me put on some goddamn clothes.”

 

* * *

 

The building behind ‘The Black Order’ was dark and seedy. Exactly the type of building in which Allen might suspect criminal activity took place. Last call at the bar had happened awhile ago, and the streets were quiet and dim, lit only by the city’s poorly-functioning street lamps. Allen shivered in the slight cold, glad he had chosen to wear a light jacket and pants. Even though it was summer, the temperature had dropped, especially this late at night. If Allen had to guess, it was just past four in the morning. 

Allen glanced over at what Lavi was wearing. He could see in the street light what he hadn’t been able to in the dark of his apartment, and took note of the heavy work boots he was wearing, the dark jeans, the long-sleeved shirt. 

“Why’d you change clothes just to come get me?” Allen asked. Besides the shoes and the dark color, Lavi’s clothes weren’t all that different from what he usually wore at the bar. Maybe a bit looser. 

Lavi smirked. It wasn’t like Kanda’s haughty smirk, but one that made Allen feel naive nonetheless. “I had to, ah, dress for the occasion,” he said, as if sharing a secret, and lifted up the back of his shirt. Tucked into the back of his pants was a shiny, black gun. 

Oh. 

Allen decided then that he’d wait to ask Lavi how he’d known where Allen lived. “So that’s why you make so much money?” Allen asked. His voice dropped to a whisper. “ _ You’re in the mafia? _ ”

“Ouch.” Lavi turned and put a hand over his chest. “No, you sweet boy, I make so much money because I’m  _ great _ at what I do.” Lavi tucked his shirt back over the gun, went up to the metal door of the building, and knocked four times. He tossed a grin over his shoulder and what appeared to be a devil-may-care shrug —  _ was that supposed to be reassuring? _ Allen wondered — and elaborated. “ _ Everything _ that I do.” 

The door swung open.

Inside, Allen found himself unsurprised to see Kanda leaning against one of the walls, somehow ignoring Allen but sneering at him at the same time. He was, however, surprised to see Noise Marie standing just next to Kanda, and especially so when the big man gave him a nod in greeting. 

The room was dim, maybe even dimmer than the street outside, and wreathed in cigarette and cigar smoke. Allen could make out several men standing and sitting, most of whom he didn’t recognize. From his understanding of mob movies, Allen guessed that the head honcho would be the one with the most smoke around his face, and there...ah, there he was.

In the center towards the back of the room, sat a man in an impeccable suit, face entirely concealed by plumes of rich cigar smoke. Two gold rings glinted at his right hand and through the smoke Allen could make out the long ends of equally rich dark red hair. 

Lavi nudged Allen forward. The man exhaled and the warm aroma of his cigar washed over Allen.  _ Cuban? _ Allen wondered. He sniffed the air.  _ No...Nicaraguan. _

“Who’s this?” the man rumbled. Good Christ, even his voice sounded rich. It sounded equal parts gravely and smooth, like whiskey on the rocks. 

Lavi nudged him again. “Allen Walker,” Allen said. He figured if he was going to get blown away by the mafia he might as well use his real name. Well, that and technically this was his boss and he was surrounded by coworkers who knew his real name anyway. 

“Allen Walker,” the man repeated, and finally the smoke cleared enough for Allen to glimpse the face of the man who had summoned him in the middle of the night with a gun-slinging bartender. 

Cross Marian was a handsome man. That was Allen’s first impression. Thick hair the color of fresh blood, and shrewd eyes almost the same color. He had gold glinting at his ears and neck, and a gold chain connected to the delicate glasses perched on his nose. He was bathed in hues of red, and gold, and black, and Allen’s second impression of the man was that he was powerful, probably evil, and bloody terrifying.

“I hear that you are currently in my employment,” Cross spoke. He raised a brow and looked Allen up and down as if assessing his worth. 

Allen wasn’t sure how to respond. Yes, he was currently in the employment of ‘The Black Order,’ working as a bar-back, busboy, and now hostess. But he didn’t know if that meant that he was also necessarily in the employ of this man in particular. Did that make Allen part of the mafia or mob or whatever scary cult this was?

Lavi stepped in. “He’s got good reflexes, and trains a lot I think.” Allen wasn’t sure how that had to do with what Cross was saying, but hold up, what was that about Allen’s training?  _ Now how would Lavi know that? _ Allen wondered, besides the obvious being that maybe Lavi had seen his muscles and the way he’d avoided Kanda’s sword swipes and made an educated guess? “He’s got good survival instinct—” Well that was certainly true. “—and he’s the best card player I think you’re going to find.”

_ What? _ Allen turned to gape at Lavi. Now, really, how in the  _ fuck _ would Lavi know that Allen was an ace poker player? He played only when he was low on rent, and clear across town to avoid any familiar faces. Had Lavi been stalking him?

Cross made a considering sound low in his throat. Allen opened his mouth to just ask,  _ Excuse me, what the fuck is going on and why am I here and am I going to be killed and why do I need to play cards… _ But Lavi elbowed him again. 

Stifling the urge to bludgeon the red-headed bartender with his own shoes, Allen turned back to Cross.

“So,  _ boy _ ,” Cross blew out a stream of fragrant smoke into his eyes. The man was testing him, feeling him out. Of that much, Allen was sure. “Would you say that you can play cards better than anyone in this room?”

From somewhere behind him, Allen heard the unmistakable sound of a scoff. Kanda. It was also the exact moment that Allen remembered that Kanda had bet twenty percent of his tip rake that Allen hadn’t had anyone to go to bed with after his shift.  _ Never mind that the bastard had been right... _

He squared his jaw. “Yes, _sir,”_ he said, throwing emphasis on the word just as Cross had thrown emphasis on ‘boy.’ “I can safely say that I can play cards better than anyone in this _city_.”

At this, Cross’s face split into a grin so demonic and positively jubilant that Allen actually took a step back and felt his heart fall to his knees in instinctual terror.  _ This guy,  _ Allen thought.  _ This guy is probably actually the Devil. _

“You may look like an idiot, boy,” Cross guffawed. “But you’ve got some pluck. Here’s the deal: you’ve got a new assignment in addition to whatever it is you normally do at my bar. If it works out, it’ll be a permanent position. If not...well…” Cross stubbed out his spent cigar directly on the table in front of him, even though there was an ash tray right next to it. The ashes burned red as coals, red as Cross’s eyes, for a moment as the table smoked. “If not, I’m sure we can figure something out. Something equally permanent, eh?” Allen’s heart fell from his knees to down past his toes. The mob-boss Devil-incarnate before him actually threw back his head and laughed. “Sounds fair, right?”

“What am I to do?” Allen asked. Not that he had much of a choice. Allen thought grimly that at least he had no family and his dad had already died, so that this man couldn’t use that against him. 

Cross looked at him from over the top of his gold-framed glasses. “You’re going to be my new gambling man. Make me rich. Win back any losses. Settle any debts. Starting with these two assholes and the money they swindled me out of.”

Cross flashed a picture in front of Allen, and the two people he saw there really shouldn’t have shocked him as much as they did. Hadn’t he thought they just looked and smelled and  _ tasted _ like trouble?

It was Tyki Mikk and Road Camelot. 

Of course. 


	4. And People In Hell Want Ice Water

If he had a working clock in his apartment, Allen suspected that he’d be plagued by it right about now. Entranced and distracted by that steady  _ tik-tok tik-tok  _ counting down the moments he had left to live. As it was, Allen was instead focused on the steady snoring of Timcanpy curled on top of his feet, causing them to go numb and tingly. 

_ Heenn...nggh….Henn...nghh.  _

It was 5:47 in the morning, and he still had yet to fall asleep. He should have been out cold. Exhausted from a long and hectic shift at the Black Order, frazzled by the stiff drinks in his system, overcome by the nightmarish turn of events at his boss’s  _ mafia den _ .

Instead he was shuffling a deck of cards one-handed. The cardstock was worn and creased from use and it slipped easily across his fingers. His lucky deck. The illustrations on each card displayed wide jester grins. 

_ How did they find out? How did they know I played cards? _

He’d been so careful. He’d maybe played  _ once _ since his employ to the Black Order. Had they known about his cheating?

Maybe this whole thing was an elaborate scheme to penalize him for his crimes around the various poker dens of the city. Maybe Cross owned some of those dens. But then why have him play those two people in a private game? Why entrench him even further in Cross’s criminal web?

A criminal web that Allen now knew included Lavi, Kanda, and Noise. He swallowed a lump in his throat. Lavi had shown up at his apartment. He’d known where he lived. And like an idiot, Allen had gone right along with him when he showed up at four in the morning after spending all night getting him drunk.  _ You just traipsed along after him without a second thought. He didn’t even  _ touch _ his gun, let alone threaten you with it.  _

He groaned and rolled on to his side, cards still flickering in his hand. First he shuffled it so that all the aces were at the top of the deck. Then until the top hand formed a Royal Flush. Then until all the cards were in sequential order. All without ever glancing at the cards in his grasp.

Without sleeves to hide choice cards, Allen thought, he would need to rely on shuffling to bend the game to his will. Sure he could just play the game sans cheating; he was a decent poker player when all was said and done. But with his life and livelihood on the line, Allen couldn’t risk playing a straight game. Not against those people. Tyki Mikk and Road Camelot were sure to cheat. It was probably how Cross had lost his money in the first place. 

Shuffling would require, however, being able to touch the game deck. In a private game, there would most certainly be a separate dealer. And in a game of revenge and reprisal like this one, there would be even more scrutiny on each player. Cheating would be almost impossible. 

No sleeves. Limited shuffling. An unfamiliar deck. Allen narrowed his eyes in the dim light of the encroaching dawn. It was possible that he might be able to pull it off using only sleight of hand and misdirection. But that would require enthralling the attention of not only his two opponents, but the dealer and all observers. An incredible feat of gregariousness, palpable charm. Distraction.

Allen grimaced. Maybe he should wear his skirt. 

A series of vibrations from his phone resting on the nightstand had Allen sprawling over the side of the bed with a groan. He couldn’t tell if he was still buzzed or if he was in steady hangover territory. Either way, it was with bleary vision and a pounding head that Allen read the messages he received, hand still blindly shuffling. 

He had two text messages. One was from an unrecognized number.

_ <Come back to tonight’s location after the bar closes at 2. Feel free to bring whatever the hell you want, but be aware that you’ll be thoroughly searched. Oh, and don’t dress like you’re fucking homeless. I’m running a business here.> _

The other was from Komui. 

_ <Walker. Krory called in sick, and I need you to pick up his shift. You’ll be compensated for OT. I need you at 8AM on the dot. Clock in with Lenalee when you get there.> _

His phone’s main screen displayed the current time: 6:17 AM. 

“Timcanpy,” he murmured, jostling the cat with a numb foot. “Please, just curl up on my face and smother me now."

 

* * *

 

 

“Allen, darling.”

Allen unstuck his forehead from the bar counter. Lenalee was giving him a look. A colorful look. One that said,  _ Poor baby, _ and,  _ If you don’t get back to work I will give you an appendectomy with my clipboard,  _ and,  _ You look like shit, _ and,  _ I want you to bend me over in the back room and show me just how much you like my pigtails— _

Okay, maybe that last one was wishful thinking on his part.

“Sorry, Lenalee,” he said, picking up the paring knife he’d dropped when he rested his head on the counter, and resumed slicing limes. He had five done, and about four point three billion left to go.

“Rough night? Was Lavi too generous with his pours last night?”

Allen cut a bit too harshly into his lime, gouging a deep groove into the cutting board beneath. He didn’t care. All he cared about was  _ murder _ . 

“ _ Lavi _ ,” he seethed. “Is too generous with his entire body.” Then, he winced.

Ah shit. At Lenalee’s raised and waggled eyebrow, Allen groaned and stifled the urge to plop his forehead right back onto the counter. He had  _ not  _ meant it like that. 

He’d meant to express his disgust with Lavi’s insertion of his giant, unwarranted nose into his life, for blabbing about Allen’s poker prowess, for the  _ stalking _ that most likely occurred in order to provide aforementioned information, and for ensnaring him hopelessly in the affairs of the mafia. But no. Instead, he had insinuated to the person who was effectively his manager that the reason he was currently slumped over the bar counter, floundering at his lime-cutting duties, was because he’d spent the night in a haze of wild passion with the Black Order’s resident playboy-bartender. Wonderful. Allen blamed his pounding headache, slight nausea, and the two-ish hours of sleep he’d managed to get before being called in for his extra early shift for his bout of idiocy. At least, for this current bout of idiocy. 

“Uh, that came out wrong.” Allen fumbled for a way to salvage the situation. He couldn’t afford to lose this job. It was the best paying job that he’d managed to keep, and he was also pretty sure that getting fired would be going against Cross’s orders, and then the mob boss would probably have him killed. But how to tell Lenalee that she happened to work for a satanic mafia kingpin and that at least one of her coworkers was probably a hitman in addition to being a bartender? “I’m...ah...a little hungover, I guess. Or maybe really hungover.”

Lenalee looked like she didn’t contest this explanation, at least. “Here, doll. Finish up those two dozen limes, give all the tables a wipe-down, and then I’ll make you a nice cup of coffee. I’ll even use Komui’s special blend,” she added with an endearing wink. 

It was hard to stay grumpy in the wake of that prospect, especially when Lenalee Lee was winking at him. He dove into slicing the limes with renewed gusto. He’d just have to remember to yell at Lavi later, when he showed up for his shift....seven hours from now. Or, after said shift, when he’d have to play poker against gangsters to save his skin from  _ other _ gangsters. God, sometimes Allen hated working at the Black Order.

 

* * *

 

 

“Hey, aren’t you usually the hostess?”

Allen paused on his way from the bar to the basement, shrugging the empty but still dripping crate higher up on his shoulder. It was the fifth ice run he’d had to do, given the day’s unusually muggy temperature. Sweat pooled at the hollow of his throat, at his shoulder blades, in the center of his chest. At this point in the day, he was just trying not to stagger and not appear as drunk as he wished he could be right now. 

The person who addressed him wasn’t one of the Black Order’s regulars, he could tell, but a customer nonetheless. He pasted a customer-friendly smile on his dripping face. 

“Actually, I’m usually the bar-back. The hostessing is the side-act.” Allen scraped the damp hair off his forehead. “I’ve also been known to dabble in kitchen expo-ing.” God, he was rambling.

The customer giggled. She was petite, even shorter than Fou, with a tumble of blond hair that went to her waist. Her features, almost doll-like in their perfection, crinkled in amusement at his verbal bumbling. “I’ve never seen a guy pull off a skirt so well. Actually, I’ve never seen a girl pull off a skirt so well.”

Allen waited for the leer. The saucy wink. But this girl merely tossed him a teasing grin. Maybe he was delirious - actually, Allen was  _ certain _ he was delirious at this point in his overhaul of a shift - but was this ( _ adorable _ ) chick flirting with him? 

“Uh…” One could always count on him for intelligent and appropriate responses. He was a credit to the service industry. 

The girl only laughed, in a good-natured way, as if Allen’s incoherent babbling and sweat-drenched appearance was somehow appealing. “I know this is strange, but I saw you the other night, and, well, I guess I just couldn’t pass up on the opportunity.” She held out a folded square of paper. Allen took it automatically. “I’m Lala, by the way.” And then she walked right out of the bar, hair swishing behind her and leaving Allen with the paper still pinched between his fingers and a dumb look on his face.

“That was real smooth, Walker.” Fou’s scathing drawl floated easily over the din of the bar. She and Lenalee were cackling behind the counter. 

Allen glanced down at the piece of paper in his hands. Unfolded it.

_ Hey, I noticed you for the first time the other night, and I think you’re gorgeous. If you’re interested at all, please call me. 773-462-9871. _

“ _ Beansprout! _ ” That outraged bark would be from Kanda. “I asked for that ice ten minutes ago!”

“Allen! How’s my favorite coworker? Haven’t seen you in ages!” That would be Lavi, showing up for his shift fifteen minutes behind schedule. 

“ _ WALKER— _ ” Komui’s shriek was clearly audible even from behind the closed door of his office. “— _ DID YOU DRINK COFFEE OUT OF MY RABBIT MUG. MY PERSONAL  _ BLEND _?! _ **_”_ **

“Hey,” And now another customer was approaching him. A lean guy wearing a baseball cap sideways. “Aren’t you the guy who wears that bangin’ skirt on the weekends?”

“Pardon me,” he said, ever-polite, And, ever the master at appropriate responses, he continued: “I think I’m about to throw up.”

And then he fled to his tried-and-true sanctuary, a safe-haven in times good and bad: the kitchen.

 

* * *

 

 

“I’m going to be sick…” Allen choked back a dry heave as he bent over the metal sink in the back kitchen. 

“Not in my sink, honey.” Jerry hooked a ladle over his shoulder and turned him away from the giant metal sink. The cook observed with an alarmed expression as Allen swayed on his feet. “Oh lord, are you hungover again, sweetie? Maybe I should have a talk with Lavi about all the drinks he’s making you…”

_ Maybe you should have a talk with Lavi about the criminal organization he’s gang-pressed me into. Christ, what if Jerry’s in on it?  _ Allen gave the ladle in Jerry’s hand a wary look. “S’not the alcohol,” Allen wheezed, suddenly sensitive about his reputation for being consistently hungover and also a lightweight. He was underage for chrissakes. “Just, um, a little anxious about something after my shift.”

The dark-skinned cook narrowed his eyes for a moment - out of suspicion? concern? - and then steered him by the shoulders towards the door. “Go to the back room, sweetie. I’ll see if I can’t have one of the dears behind the bar fix you up with a little something. Put a little pep in your step. Go on,” he said as he ushered Allen out of his kitchen. Allen went without resistance. Even if the cook  _ was _ in on the whole mafia debacle, Allen didn’t think Jerry had it out for him. The man always doted on him and gave him free food. As far as Allen was concerned, giving out free food was the first step to enlightenment and angel wings and all that.  

In the back room Allen tried to regulate his breathing. It was true that he was most definitely hungover, but the nausea was more a product of the giant metaphorical gun to his forehead that could, if he messed up in any way, turn into a very literal gun to his forehead.  _ There’s no desert to be buried in out here so they’ll probably dissolve my body in acid. Or maybe they’ll make it look like suicide. ‘Oh yeah, Allen couldn’t handle wearing a skirt for money so he just blew his brains out Monday morning. Tragic, huh?’  _ Okay, now he was hyperventilating…

The door cracked open, and Allen hoped it was whichever wonderful person Jerry sent. So, of course, Kanda walked in.

“What the hell are you doing?”

_ Trying not to die.  _ “What the hell do you  _ want _ , Bakanda?”

The stoic bartender only sniffed at him. Derisive as always. “Someone is jumpy today.”

Was he  _ trying _ to make Allen blow his cover? Sure it was only the two of them in the storeroom, but who knew how many listening devices Komui had tucked up in there. And Kanda was  _ blatantly _ feigning ignorance when they both very well knew what was making him jumpy, and for all Allen knew it was Kanda himself who would pull the trigger if Allen broke Cross’s orders. It was all starting to feel like one  _ bloody _ test. 

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Allen hissed with all the irony he could inject. “Just had a little too much coffee.” Which was true. In the back of his mind, Allen congratulated himself for at least remaining a halfway honest and decent person in this kind of situation.

Something strange flickered in Kanda’s eyes. “You had caffeine? After a hangover?”

“Technically it’s during a hangover. Why do you care?”

“You’re not supposed to drink caffeine with a hangover.”

“Well we can’t all be rippling pillars of health like you.” 

Kanda’s eyebrow twitched. 

_ Rippling?  _ Damn. Had he really just said that out loud? 

“Tch,” Kanda swiped the moment of awkwardness away like it was a pesky fly. “Just take this.”

Allen was so busy avoiding Kanda’s gaze that he didn’t notice the object in question until it was practically up his nose. There was an immediate and involuntary  _ whuff _ of spice and Allen’s eyes watered. “What the hell..?”

Kanda was holding a lowball tumbler up to his face and Allen took a step back to glimpse its contents.

A glistening raw egg yolk bobbed at the surface of the drink, submerged in about two inches of clear liquid, with lashes of red and dots of spices overlaying it. It smelled acidic and pungent with spice, like really bad chinese food.

“I’m not drinking that,” Allen said, taking another step back. 

“Prairie Oyster,” Kanda announced, as if Allen had fucking asked what this infernal concoction’s name was. Another step back and Allen was trapped by the shelving unit behind him. The taller man stepped forward, holding out the drink like a horror-movie doctor might hold out a syringe. 

“Is that supposed to be my hangover cure?” Allen didn’t try to reign in his sarcasm. He couldn’t help but feel betrayed by Jerry. Had there really been  _ no one _ else working the bar?

“Prairie Oyster,” Kanda said again, like an automaton, eyes curiously dead. “Drink it.”

Allen scowled. “Isn’t that from a shitty anime or something? I don’t think it actually  _ works— _ ”

Ire lit Kanda’s expression suddenly. “ _ Cowboy Bebop  _ is not a shitty anime, and there’s no alcohol in this, it’s a carefully balanced mixture of essential protein, fatty acids, and minerals to replenish your sorely thrashed vitals with enough of a spice kick to get you sweating out any remaining toxins, and I didn’t make it with actual fresh-shucked oyster liquid for you to turn your nose up at it like some pampered poodle, so just fucking drink it.” 

“Okay, Jesus,” Allen capitulated, lest Kanda prise his lips apart and pour the drink down his throat himself. “No need to get all mad scientist on me.” He took the glass in hand. It was lukewarm. Actually, it was just  _ warm _ .

Allen was debating the odds of Kanda having also spit in his drink and was deciding that the bartender’s spit was certainly not the most atrocious thing in that glass when Kanda made an almost  _ petulant  _ sound, snatched the lowball from his hand, and knocked back the drink himself in one fluid shot. 

“ _ Hey!  _ What the—”

Kanda shot him a venomous look, one that seemed to say,  _ Oh, NOW you want the drink? _ , and then abruptly shoved against Allen’s chest, sending him crashing into the shelves behind him. 

Allen sputtered and almost gave into the impulse to knee Kanda in the balls, but just then Kanda’s hand grabbed his jaw and then the bartender’s lips were against his own. 

_ What...? _

The kiss was rough and wet, but the hand gripping his jaw was subdued—merely angling his head upwards rather than keeping him in place. Rigid muscles were pressing into his chest, against his shoulders, and those hips...those hard, angular,  _ bare-skinned _ hips were pressing into his own like some kind of wet-dream fantasy come to life. Allen parted his lips in a quick, open-mouthed groan, and then Kanda slid his tongue past his teeth and something  _ else,  _ something creamy and viscous, went into Allen’s mouth and then Allen was swallowing every last drop of Kanda’s cocktail before he was able to rip his mouth away. 

Allen shoved hard against that muscular chest, breaking the kiss. The delicate egg yolk burst in Allen’s mouth and he had no choice but to gulp it all down, wincing when the heat from the spices hit his tongue and throat. 

He coughed and choked as tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. Leveling his most murderous glare at Kanda, Allen observed that Kanda’s smirk held an extra smug quality in it.

“You’re supposed to swallow it whole,” he drawled. His voice was a little too vindictive to convey the innuendo properly, but Allen heard it all the same. 

“You’re  _ insane _ ,” Allen hissed in reply. It must have been a placebo effect or maybe all the goddamn rage he was suddenly feeling, but Allen’s head actually felt a little clearer. Much clearer.

Kanda was already turning around to head back to the bar, as if he hadn’t just committed violent mouth-to-mouth in a storage room with someone he appeared to hate. “I’m not the one who’s tripping around like a loser, freaking out over customers giving you attention. Get your head in the game.” He looked over his shoulder and glared at Allen with one dark blue eye. “You need to keep your concentration. For tonight.” Then he was gone.

Maybe Allen  _ was _ insane, because just now, it had sounded an awful lot like Kanda had cared whether or not Allen would win his poker game tonight, and about his well-being in general. 

Allen sighed. “Why didn’t I just work in a nice, quiet coffee shop like everyone else?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Nothing against coffee shop AUs, by the way. But come on, a bar setting is just so much more dramatic and grittier! At least in my experience. 
> 
>  
> 
> Sorry if Allen seemed a bit bitchy and loopy in this. Take pity. He’s had a rough 24 hours. And his evening hasn’t even begun. More to come! Please leave a review - it’s the nicest gift an author can receive. Thanks!


	5. A Pack of Cards is the Devil's Prayer Book

“You’re late.”

After spending an estimated twenty-two hours — fifteen of which were spent on the clock, only three of which were spent fitfully sleeping, and maybe seven of which were spent hungover — agonizing and hyperventilating over the death match poker game his boss had threatened him into, the last person Allen had expected to greet him at the door of the back building was Cross Marian himself.

Allen stuttered. “I—I only just got off my shift at eleven...And you told me to change, so—”

“Excuse me, boy? Were you just about to use the workings of _my_ business as a reason to disobey me?”

Maybe Allen wouldn’t even need to play the poker game. A morbid sort of hope swelled up in him at the notion that Cross might just kill him before he ever needed to embark on criminal intrigue. “I just—”

“And what the hell do you even do at my bar? What shift of mine ends at 11PM?”

“I...well actually, I’m one of your hostesses.”

There was a pregnant pause as Allen suddenly felt every stitch of the pleated hostess skirt against his legs, though he had changed into dark jeans over an hour ago. Cross’s one visible eye bored into him, before his expression shifted to something resembling an aghast child learning where babies came from for the first time.

“ _YOU’RE_ the punk in the skirt all my customers have been raving about?”

Allen really had no response to that, except to continue profusely sweating. If he were really such a valuable asset to the bar, maybe they wouldn’t make him disappear if he failed…

_Yeah, and maybe you’ll be let off peaceably with enough severance to pay off the entirety of your student loans, too._

For his part, Cross didn’t look too impressed with Allen despite his customers’ so-called endorsement. “Christ,” he scowled. “I need to change cities.” And flicking his cigarette to the ground next to Allen’s shoe, Cross disappeared into the building, abandoning Allen at the door.

Luckily — or unluckily, Allen wasn’t sure — he wasn’t left _shvitzing_ on a mob boss’s doorstep for very long. Lavi appeared at the doorway and smacked him on the shoulder in a cheerful greeting. He had clearly come straight from the bar next door, smelling like smoke and alcohol and eyes buzzing with the fervent kind of focus he got whenever he was on-shift as a bartender.

“Hey old buddy, old pal, you excited for tonight? Let’s get you inside.”

Unlike last night, the expansive room was packed to the brim with milling guests, although in the dim light Allen was having trouble making out many faces. He recognized Noise hanging by one of the south exits, and Bak Chan — one of the bar’s suppliers — chatting with a gorgeous Chinese woman blowing smoke through her nose. Everyone, Allen realized, even Bak and Noise, seemed to be dressed in their _Cosa Nostra_ -finest: suits and cigars and mink and diamonds. Allen’s oxford shirt and dark jeans felt as though they were attracting lint and grime just by manner of inferior association with their wearer.

He’d had no idea that anyone was going to _watch_ this crazy game.

Lavi led him to the center of the room, where the lights were concentrated, and to a great wooden table with three chairs set up around it.

Allen felt like bait being skewered and tugged along a swift current as Lavi deposited him in a chair on one side of a table, facing the two on the other. Maybe he was having a stroke, but Allen swore that the din of the crowd suddenly quieted as he sat.

“Alright, champ,” Lavi said from behind him, palms tightening on his shoulders in a reassuring manner. “The game’s gonna start soon. The important thing to remember is this: you’re operating on your own until the moment you win. That means don’t look to us or anyone for direction, help, or fallback. No one’s gonna be whispering the right answer into your ear. That being said, cut loose. Don’t hold anything back. The people you’re about to play won’t pull any of their punches, so don’t pull any of yours. Just pretend you’re right at home in one of your poker dens, and let your skill do the rest.”

There it was again—Lavi’s eerily informed knowledge of him as a poker player. Allen wondered for the umpteenth time just who and what exactly Lavi was in the grander scheme of this operation, but right then, part of the crowd by an eastern exit split apart. En masse, the infamous Noah Family appeared from the smoke-wreathed gloom. And at the van, Tyki Mikk and Road Camelot approached.

Allen abruptly felt as though his tongue had shriveled up and he’d swallowed it, and resisted the urge to sink his nails into Lavi’s hands to prevent him from leaving him behind.

“They’re here,” Lavi murmured, rather redundantly. They looked just as ferocious and enthralling as Allen remembered: slicked back and effortlessly tousled hair, respectively, tailored clothes that dripped excess, and an air of bored arrogance, as though there was nothing in the world that posed a challenge to them. The back of Allen’s hair, at the nape of his neck, began to mat with sweat.

“The old man will be here any minute,” Lavi whispered, hands still on Allen’s shoulders. “He’s your dealer. Players will take their cues from him. Other than that, it’s showtime.”

Allen felt Lavi’s fingers loosening on his shirt, and before he could reign in some of his terror, he gasped, “Wait.”

Lavi stilled, but Allen could sense some of his reproof. He changed tacks mid-thought, knowing he could expect no backup from Lavi at this moment. “Why are there two of them playing against one of me?”

Lavi paused, considering. “That’s a fair question, I suppose. Alright, I’ll let you into the deal here. Tyki Mikk and Road Camelot are part of the Noah Family, some of their most esteemed members, in fact. The Boss lost a great deal of money to them a few weeks back, in a poker game no less.” At Allen’s raised eyebrow, Lavi added, “The Boss loves poker. Considers himself a top-tier aficionado, though anyone can see he’s hardly an expert. Try telling that to him though…” Lavi’s voice grew dark and Allen could only imagine what kind of sticky ending befell those who posed such a thought to Cross. God willing, this night wouldn’t end in a similarly sticky fashion. “Anyway, the Boss has been on the hunt for someone to play challenger to the two people who raked the most money from him. A formal challenge has been declared—that’s why all the people.” Lavi gestured to the gathering crowd. “And both Families agreed that the Boss could host and provide the dealer and the cards, but the Noah Family gets to use two players. So the odds are still stacked against us, but the Boss does love a good gamble, especially with his pride at stake.”

Allen nodded, seeing the scene around him fall into place. If Allen lost, he was a nobody pawn, easily disposed of and Cross’s pride protected by the 2:1 odds his player was up against. If he won, he was a weapon that conquered stacked odds, to be used at Cross’s command.

Allen sank into thoughts of the coming game as Lavi patted his shoulder and left, trailing nonsense cheer, like, “Don’t worry, I’ve got my eye on you!”, as Tyki Mikk and Road Camelot took their seats opposite his at the center table.

Allen definitely wasn’t imagining the crowd’s hush now that all the players were present. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Cross taking a seat in an armchair surrounded by men in suits, his face lit by the glow of another cigarette. Allen glanced from the red-tinged features of Cross Marian to the scorch mark on the table near Allen’s left pinky. The circle of charred wood, Allen realized, was from Cross’s stubbed cigar last night. The dark, splintered wood in the otherwise magnificent and no doubt expensive oak table served as a grim promise, should Allen flub this game.

“ _Well!_ ” The deep, effusive voice startled Allen out of his concentration. Tyki Mikk was grinning at him like they hadn’t seen each other in years. “If it isn’t the remarkable Allen Walker. I had a feeling we would meet again, although I never expected the pleasure would  come so soon.” Tyki winked and Allen glimpsed a beauty spot just over his cheekbone. “Doesn’t he look just _darling_ , Road?” Somehow he made the word sound suggestive. Road merely lowered her eyes, lashes hazy and sultry, and purred, “Quite.”

“What a fuss this night is turning out to be,” a gravelly voice sounded at Allen’s right. From the crowd appeared an ancient man, face adorned with silk-fine wrinkles and deep-set, khol-rimmed eyes. Lavi’s voice piped in from the back of his mind. _The old man will be here any minute. He’s your dealer._

Two men brought an exquisite armchair, far more lush than the seats Allen and the other players were in, to the table for the elderly man. The man produced a single deck of cards from the folds of his sleeves and announced, “Here is the deck provided by the Cross Family. Begin.”

The room went silent.

Allen’s heart was skittering in his chest, the joints in his fingers vibrating restlessly. _Begin?!_ Allen thought. _Begin what, exactly? No one has said anything!_

He glanced meaningfully at the dealer, but the old man appeared to have zoned out the moment he placed the deck of cards on the table. His eyes scanned the crowd for Lavi, but it was too dim to see anybody clearly. He even made eye contact with Cross for the briefest of moments, but the man’s visible eye was resolutely trained on the center of the table. What the hell was going on?

Allen finally looked at the players across from him, to see if they were just as confused as he was, but they only stared back at him, golden eyes holding that same feral and lazy glow. Allen was at a loss. Never had he embarked on a game of poker as uninformed as he was. What was the protocol here? What game were they even playing?

Allen felt his sweat evaporating and his hands go cold from panic, but just then, someone in the crowd ( _Lavi?_ ) cleared their throat and Allen’s focus razored to the barest essentia.

He was on his own. He was at a poker table, with a dealer, with players, with a deck of cards sitting, waiting for him. No one to save him but himself. Allen remembered his father then, and thought to himself, _There is no place to go but forward_.

“Well then,” he spoke—announced, really, pitching his voice for the crowd. He felt his lips part in a challenging grin, feeling _live_ , unsheathed. “Are we going to play some poker, or are we going to fuck around?”

Road and Tyki’s eyes flashed at him then, whetted, and he felt the crowd around him murmur in anticipation. Road Camelot spoke first, teeth glinting in a feline smile.

“Draw? Stud?” She listed off some of the popular poker games. Tyki responded in kind, offering, “Omaha? Chicago?”

Allen scoffed theatrically. “This isn’t your friend’s basement. People here want a show. _Some_ people here want their money.” Allen didn’t let himself look at Cross just then. To an outside observer, it might have seemed as though Allen was advocating for Cross. But the man and Allen himself knew that he was actually calling Cross out, pinning the blame for his involvement on the man in charge. Now, if Allen lost, it was Cross’s loss too. Allen wasn’t prepared to disappear into the desert without at least scuffing Cross’s shoes in the process.

Besides, Allen knew now that this repartee was part of the game, and spoke the expected line with enough hubris that corners of Tyki’s and Road’s grins ticked higher and a bark of laughter could be heard from Cross’s side of the room.

“We’ll play Hold ‘Em.”

 

* * *

 

Nothing about this game was sane, or straight.

Playing with just the one deck was absurd in it of itself in a game with such high-caliber players, who could track the patterns of the cards — every fold, every smudge, every aberration in the ink prints — no matter how often the dealer shuffled. And that was assuming that the deck in question was a straight deck. After over an hour of playing, Allen had yet to see every card in the deck, but he knew by now that there were more than fifty-two cards in this particular deck.

Without knowing which cards had duplicates, Allen had to completely recalculate the odds of every hand and every bet, in addition to keeping his wits about him as the players across from him cheat mercilessly. Allen couldn’t believe it. It was only because Allen knew of and had participated in certain tricks himself that he even managed to pick up on the sleight of hand Tyki and Road were managing.

Because the play deck was one that Cross had provided, each card bore a design unique to the Cross Family and was therefore immune to any stray cards that Road or Tyki may have hidden away. Their hidden cards would no doubt display generic designs that would easily blend in with a run-of-the-mill deck, but be useless against Cross’s bespoke deck. Allen himself had a literal, just-in-case Ace up his shirt sleeve, now rendered meaningless.

Such an obstacle was barely an inconvenience to the two Noah players however. Allen watched, stunned, as Road and Tyki expertly flashed their hands — two cards that were dealt to each player at the beginning of a hand — at each other, giving them more information about the remaining cards in the deck and allowing them to recalculate odds in a far more accurate manner than Allen was able to. A few times, Allen could only watch, aghast, as Road and Tyki managed to _switch_ the cards in their hands, despite the two feet or so separating them and a crowd of people watching their every move besides. It was a display of _perfect_ synchronization, each player misdirecting with one of their hands (a gesticulation, a tug on an earlobe, a re-stacking of their chips) while the other _flicked_ the card in question towards the other player at the exact same time they flicked another card back. The level of cooperation a stunt like that required was, in Allen’s professional opinion, nigh on impossible. But somehow these Noah players managed it, under the noses of everyone present, including the seemingly shrewd eyes of the dealer.

Allen couldn’t very well comment on it, however, for doing so was against the unwritten code of cheating. If you call out someone’s tricks, you can’t use those tricks yourself, and Allen _needed_ to cheat if he had any hope of winning this game. And if a cheat goes unnoticed by the eye in the sky (in the case of a poker den: a camera, in this case: the crowd), it was like it never happened.

Allen was trapped by the odds against him — two players conspiring together — and the very cards which kept his opponents from rotating in imitation cards kept him from doing the same. Nevertheless, he was holding his own, barely keeping his stack of chips even with the other two.

Allen's Hand

_King of Spades, Jack of Clubs in my hand. Flop showing Jack, Nine, Nine. Forty-five percent chance that Tyki has a Nine, giving him a Three-of-a-Kind, which beats my current Two-Pair of Jacks and Nines. But a twenty-six percent chance that another Jack will turn up at either the Turn or the River, giving me a Full House, Jacks full of Nines. There are two Hearts on the board, giving Road a fifty-seven_ — _no, sixty percent chance of a Flush with the next two cards, since there are more Hearts in this deck than in a standard deck, and I’m pretty sure Road has two Hearts in her hand already._

The Flop

 

Allen grit his teeth. He could only assume that Cross himself was responsible for this bastardized version of a deck, at least fifty-six cards strong by Allen’s current count, and rife with extra Hearts and Queens. The accursed lecher of a man should have known that a corrupt deck would pose an equal disadvantage to his own player as it did his opponents, and even moreso given that those opponents were colluding with one another.

The dealer placed the next card down, the Turn: Seven of Hearts.

The Turn

_Shit_. Allen resisted the urge to gnaw through his lower lip; it wouldn’t do for the other players or the crowd to see him so distressed. This new card now gave Road a Flush, if Allen’s prediction proved correct, and depending on her hand and whether or not the River card was an Eight or Ten of Hearts, a twenty-one percent chance of a Straight Flush, the second most powerful hand a player can have.

“Ten-thousand,” Tyki bet, tossing his chips to the center of the table. He was teeing Road up perfectly for a raise; he must know the odds of Road’s hand as well as Allen.

As predicted, Road shoved her chips into the middle. “Raise. Twenty-thousand.”

Allen bit the side of his tongue, drawing blood. The dealer turned to him, “Mr. Walker, the bet’s to you. Twenty-thousand, or re-raise.”

_Or fold_ , went the unspoken option. But Allen had sunk twenty-thousand in chips into the pot already, and to fold now would be to give them up to the Noah players. Allen’s stack of chips was dwindling. He needed to win this hand, when a high concentration of chips were staked and he had a chance at a Full House. But his odds were poor compared to Road’s, and they all knew it.

Allen felt his shirt collar around his neck tightening like a noose. The dealer gazed at him without an ounce of compassion. “Your bet, Mr. Walker. Do you call?”

His mind raced with calculations of odds and cheat tactics and sheer desperation. He was losing his cool. Dehydration and exhaustion mixed with anxiety and a dash of caffeine left his hands jittery and his head cloudy.

The dealer sighed. “Sometime before I die, Mr. Walker.” All moisture left Allen’s mouth. Somehow, the dealer seemed to pick up on this fact, despite his seeming ignorance towards the rampant cheating occurring at his table. “If you insist on looking so parched, fear not. The two-hour break mark is coming up in about two minutes, but you will have to act before then.”

Just then, Allen glimpsed the deck that the dealer had cradled in his hand, ready to turn over the final card, the River card. Two cards down, a familiar ruffled edge caught his eye. The slight wear in the cardstock, furrowed in two places—Allen knew that card from a previous hand. Hope caught fire in his chest.

The Jack of Spades. His Jack. With that Jack he could make his Full-House, a higher hand than Road’s Flush. But the Jack was two cards down. Only the top card was about to be flipped over for the River, and then that would be it.

In a straight game, Allen would have had to accept this hand as a lost cause. But Road and Tyki weren’t the only expert cheaters at the table. All Allen had to do was somehow remove or re-order the top card of the deck so that his Jack was first. And the dealer had just inadvertently informed him that there was to be a mandatory break in two minutes, the ideal scenario for a distraction.

Allen needed to buy some time, however. If he called Road’s bet, the dealer would simply turn over the non-Jack River card before Allen would have any time to re-order the deck. But if he re-raised, and then was unable to successfully bring his Jack to the top, he would lose a monumental amount of money. In this game, two against one, he would be short-stacked, lose his competitive edge, and almost certainly never recover enough chips throughout the game to win.

_If I fold, I lose. If I call, there’s an eighty-seven percent chance that I’ll lose. If I raise, and don’t cheat successfully, I’ll lose._

Allen glanced towards the weary, impatient face of the dealer. Then he regarded those smug golden glances of his opponents. Lastly, he caught Cross’s eye, pupil so constricted Allen could see the true-red of his iris.

Allen huffed a quick inhale-exhale. The dealer raised his eyebrows. “Well?”

“I’m All-In. One-Hundred and Fifty Thousand.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> //Edit: Just added in the images for Allen's hand, the Flop, and the Turn, for ease of understanding. Let me know if the images help or if they're just confusing.//
> 
> Not only am I a fan of bartending and mixed drinks, I am also an avid fan of hold 'em. The percentages in this chapter are bogus, since I suck at math and it's a 52+ deck, but the game itself (the betting, the hands, the anxiety/exhilaration) are as close to real as I could make it. Let me know if any part of this poker game is confusing, and I'd be happy to try to clear things up in the comments. Cheers, xo


	6. The River Styx

“I’m All-In. One-Hundred and Fifty Thousand.”

A murmur rumbled through the crowd, equal parts uneasy and excited. Bak Chan, one of the Black Order suppliers, was the former, having just choked on the olive in his dirty martini. His companion, the lovely Chinese woman Allen had glimpsed next to Bak, was whole-heartedly the latter; Anita Guangzhou hummed appreciatively, “That kid has a set of balls on him.”

Cross Marian belonged firmly in the former category. His cigarette teetered on the brim of his agape mouth. Privately, he was thinking, _Who the FUCK does this brat think he is?_

Not that he’d _told_ the little weasel that his playing chips represented an actual sum of money — two-hundred thousand, USD, all in unmarked hundreds sitting in a locked briefcase chained to Yuu Kanda’s wrist — but Cross had thought that maybe the kid possessed a little common sense, or at least a modicum of self-preservation.

Tyki Mikk was similarly struggling with his cigarette, smoke stinging his lungs in too sharp an inhalation.

“I’m a bit choked up myself, Mr. Mikk,” Allen said, not unkindly. Tyki pinned those wild golden eyes on his.

“Call me Tyki, boy.” His smile was strained, or perhaps it merely took on a harsher edge. Without so much as a full ten seconds of deliberation, he flicked his cards towards the table’s center. “I fold.”

Allen expected as much. Tyki was sure to have expected it too; the entire reason for his initial bet of ten-thousand had been to set Road up for her twenty-thousand raise. They all knew she held the best chance at the highest hand, and Tyki was to bow out of the hand as soon as Allen made his next move. Allen could only assume that Tyki’s unscripted reluctance stemmed from a bruised ego. Such a reckless All-In had triggered Tyki’s instincts, sensing blood in the water, a limp in his gait. Allen held his expression as still as possible, a deer hoping it hadn’t been spotted, a young bartender hoping he hadn’t just made an enemy out of a mob prince.

A minute until the drink break. He glanced at Road.

She blinked. Once. Twice.

“Call, One-Hundred and Fifty Thousand.”

Allen’s heart fell straight through the floor and plummeted through to certain abyss.

_What?_

No deliberation, no hesitation. Any second now and the dealer would flip the last card before Allen would have any chance at performing his switch.

Road shoved almost her entire stack of chips into the center of the table, the sheer amount of them nearly overwhelming the cards. The dealer collected his and Road’s chips, re-stacked them in the center of the table. His hand hovering over the deck, the dealer cleared his throat.

“It is now time for the scheduled break. Players may not rise from their seats. The game will resume in ten minutes.”

Allen’s soul crashed back into his body.

_Thank God._

His relief was short-lived, however. Cutting a glance at the two players across from him, Allen noticed that neither Road nor Tyki had taken their eyes off him. Somehow he had to devise a way to switch the top two cards in a deck out of arm’s reach, right as the dealer had forbidden players to move from their chairs. Only a handful of minutes to switch the cards, and every eye in the building trained on them.

_Out of the frying pan and into the fire._

A dark drawl curled through his thoughts like smoke drifting through nostrils. “Well then, I hope everyone is having a satisfactory evening here…”

Allen started, skin prickling. That rum-dark and rum-sweet voice belonged to Lavi. And, Allen noted with widening eyes, he looked so... _polished._ The eyepatch was still there, but the earrings were missing, his scruff trimmed, blood-dark hair slicked back. When had he had the time to shower and change—? He must have done it during the game; Lavi hadn’t been watching him at all.

And it wasn’t just his hair or beard that was fresh and sharp. Lavi was dressed in traditional barman attire: crisp collared shirt, black vest, leather sleeve garters. Even a black satin bowtie pulling taut at his throat. Allen gulped. The leather garters pulled tight at the man’s biceps, his whole shirt straining for a moment as he swept his arms in a welcoming gesture.

“Drinks?” That was his devil-may-care grin he was levelling at Tyki just now, voice lowering to a rich, throaty timbre. “May I interest you in anything, sir?”

Tyki Mikk certainly looked interested in a lot of somethings right then. His gaze was all intoxication and chaos during the moments it tracked Lavi’s form, enough ribald promise in his eyes that Allen felt himself flush even though it was Lavi under vivid scrutiny.

“I see...How about a Tequila Sunrise, handsome?” Tyki winked, golden eyes flickering back to Allen for a moment. And— _oh fuck_. Allen hadn’t taken advantage of Tyki’s lapse in concentration. A quick glance at Road showed that her gaze hadn’t wavered a tick during Lavi’s entrance, at least, not that Allen himself had noticed while he’d been distracted.

Lavi turned all of his rakish presence on Road then, but she merely recited, “Negroni, _Boodles_ Gin, rocks.” Without ever taking her eyes off of Allen.

_Shit shit shit shitshitshit…._

“And anything for you... _sir?_ ”

Allen refused to break eye contact with Road, but privately he fumed against the promise, the _burn_ , Lavi managed to infuse in just a few words. He barely remembered what he murmured as he held a staring contest with Road Camelot (“Er...ginger ale, I guess”), but by the time the bartender had returned with all of their drinks, neither of them had blinked, tracking any minute shift or twitch in their respective frames.

Allen’s prospects were looking more grim with every passing instant. Road might not have known the kind of hand Allen was gunning for, but she clearly had her hackles up.

A weak, desperate part of Allen had hoped that maybe Lavi or even the dealer would have given him some sort of Hail-Mary signal or hint. But there was nothing hidden in his ginger ale except for a dash of Angostura bitters and a lime twist — that was Lavi, always adding something extra to his drinks — and Allen knew that he shouldn’t have expected anything. Lavi had _told_ him not to expect any outside interference. And here he was, about to lose this game in front of not one but TWO crime families and all their attendants, and quite possibly about to lose his life, or _at least_ his job...

Glassware shattered on the floor.

Tyki’s martini glass lay scattered in pieces, his remaining drink now splattered on the floor. The man himself was wearing an unrepentant grin, as though he had merely brushed some dust from his sleeve instead of destroying barware. Kicking his polished boots up onto the poker table, Tyki loosened his tie, unbuttoned his collar, and lit a fresh cigarette.

“Guess I can take a load off, finally,” he mused, voice pitched loud and rowdy for their audience. He snapped his fingers. “Barman, you know how to make a proper _Caipirinha_?”

There were disapproving murmurs from the crowd as the Noah Family Prince ordered Cross Family workers around, but after a measured nod from Cross, Lavi just strode in with his usual carefree flair. “Of course, right away, sir.”

The wizened dealer looked particularly offended by Tyki’s boots up on the oak and felt, and remarked, “Mr. Mikk, you are still technically an active participant in this game.”

The look Tyki shot the dealer then left no doubt in Allen’s mind that this man was not only gangster royalty, but also a bloody psychopath.

“This game is already over, _velho_ ,” he seethed, smile full of venom. “And yours is the first head I shall remove when the Noah Family takes its prize.” Tyki shot a victorious glance towards Road, who took the slightest pause from staring down Allen to share an indulgent grin with her partner.

 _There it is._ Allen’s instincts kicked in. Maybe Road on her own was too tough, too vigilant, to crack by himself. But she wasn't the one he needed to fool. Road and Tyki had been cheating all night, and all they'd needed to do was fool the crowd.

The combination of both Road and Tyki had proved devastating to Allen’s poker strategy—the odds so hopelessly stacked against him that he was shocked that he hadn't lost already. But he knew all the tricks in the book, and now he could employ Tyki unwittingly against his partner.

That smug look Tyki had given Road, and the way he was sure that the game was ‘already over,’ convinced Allen that Road definitely had her Flush, which beat his current Two-Pair. But with another Jack, Allen’s hand would be a Full House.

Allen glanced to his left. The dealer had placed the deck on the felt just a fingertip’s width out of his reach if Allen stretched his arm all the way out. Tyki was to the dealer’s right. Already the dealer was distracted by Tyki’s boots up on the table, and although Road was watching Allen with what felt like laser eyes, Tyki’s alert demeanor had shifted to one of bored certainty. Allen just needed to figure out the proper method of distraction…

Lavi returned, bearing the _Caipirinha_ in a rocks glass rimmed with what looked like brown sugar. Just as Lavi was turning to leave after setting the drink down, Tyki lunged for his forearm. It was only for a heartbeat, but just for that sliver of a moment Allen saw something deadly light in Lavi’s eyes. But Tyki only caressed the pulse point on Lavi’s arm, and purred, “You call this a proper _Caipirinha_ ? With _brown_ sugar?”

“Not just brown sugar, but chili flakes too,” Lavi returned, charm back in place. Rather than pulling his arm out of Tyki’s grip, he leaned in further, all smolder. “Try it. You’ll never want one any other way.”

Before Tyki could quip back with whatever absurdly flirtatious line he had loaded in the chamber, Allen jumped in, willing his voice to sound as rich and smooth as Lavi’s.

“I’ll take a crack at it. I’m not much for being proper.” He finished with a wink, hoping to distract Tyki with his insinuation, all while leaning just out of his chair as if to reach across the table for Tyki’s drink.

Tyki took the bait. “You think you can handle a kick like that, boy? Never mind the chilies, the cachaça will knock you right on your ass.”

“Mm,” Allen rumbled, pausing over the table as if considering. “I don’t mind a little heat.” His palm was resting near the deck. Pinky close to the edge of the cards. “The cachaça though...Maybe you can give me some direction.” Allen took a gamble and swiped the glass before Tyki could respond, flicking his tongue just once over the rim to taste the sugar and spice. He kept his eyes locked on Tyki’s as he took a hearty gulp, pinky edging closer to the edge of the deck. Sure enough, Tyki’s eyes were pinned on his bobbing throat.

Two gulps. Three. Keeping his gaze riveted on those dark golden eyes as his pinky and ring finger did a blind, complicated dance. He’d knocked back half the drink before Tyki finally lunged from his seat and Allen almost choked from the panic, but Tyki was laughing, eyes light and wild, gesturing back for his drink, and saying, “Alright! Jesus, _rapaz_ , you’re going to catch fire now that all that alcohol’s in you.”

“ _Players!_ ” The dealer barked, practically shaking the table. “Sit down immediately!” He slapped Allen’s hand away from the table, and although he didn’t dare lay hands on a Noah, Tyki still looked chastened by the sudden volume. Tyki nabbed his drink from Allen (his fingers were much rougher and more calloused than Allen expected fingers crowded with sapphire rings to be) and plopped back into his seat and kicked his feet right back on the table. The very picture of mischief. Tyki seemed like he had been the kind of child who would get caught with his hands in the cookie jar just so he could get his hands smacked by the pretty babysitter. Or whoever cared for mob princes when they were young.

Allen shivered, feeling his jaw and knuckles quivering with adrenaline. Already his thoughts were singing from the fiery alcohol. No one needed to know that his all-teeth smile was an attempt to curb chattering teeth, rather than an easygoing grin.

A quick glance at Road. Were her eyes even more fixed on him? No, that was how she’d always been looking at him. Except he swore that she glanced over at Tyki at one point, all weary indulgence.

No one was jumping to their feet and accusing him of cheating, so Allen could only hope he’d switched the correct cards. The elderly dealer scowled once more at Tyki’s boot heels, before clearing his throat. “We will now resume play. Mr. Walker has placed a bet of one-hundred and fifty thousand, the entirety of his holdings. Mr. Mikk has folded his hand. Ms. Camelot has called Mr. Walker’s bet of one-hundred and fifty thousand, and her holdings cover the amount by ten-thousand. Mr. Walker, as you have gone All-In, would you please show your cards.”

This was it. Allen flipped over his hand. King of Spades. Jack of Clubs.

Allen was sure he wasn’t imagining how their audience leaned forward in their seats, or how Cross leaned backwards, as if distancing himself. By the bar, Lavi flicked his eyes back and forth between Tyki and a man in a deep violet suit who looked like a vague relation. Tyki himself looked bored, sipping his half-drunk cocktail. Allen could no longer disguise the beads of sweat covering his skin, the useless Ace up his sleeve sticking to his forearm, and as the dealer flipped the final card, the River, over in the center of the table, Allen’s gaze was inextricably drawn to Road’s. He couldn’t bear to look, to see his failure. He was ensnared in gold, those predator’s eyes in that perfect heart-shaped face, jags of hair sweeping across her forehead giving her a wild look, as the crowd around them gasped and Cross stood bolt upright from his armchair. All of it was hazy in his periphery, because just then, Road hooked her eyes straight into his soul, and winked.

Allen’s heart sank. _I’m dead._

Finally, finally, after hours of play, Road’s eyes let go of Allen’s, and she let out a laugh like bells tinkling, taking a sip from her negroni. “I guess I should just call it quits now, right? No point in playing with only ten-thousand. And Tyki, dear, I believe you’re only left with five.” Her grin was positively jovial. “I fold.” She swept her cards face-down, as was her prerogative, into the center of the chip pile.

His sweat chilled to ice.

_What?_

“Ms. Camelot folds. Mr. Walker collects a total of three-hundred and seventy-five thousand with the winning hand, a Full-House, Jacks full of Nines.”

The River

Cross rocked back into his seat, booming with laughter. “What did I tell you Cyril, eh?” The man in the dark purple suit grimaced, shooting a look at Tyki, whose cigarette was now burning a small hole in the felt. “I’d say that about settles it! Keep the fifteen-thousand as a good-will gift. Give my best to the Earl.” With a snap of his fingers, Lavi was at Allen’s elbow, dragging him up from his seat as Kanda of all people strode out from the crowd to receive a steel case from a disgruntled looking Noah member.

“What’s going on?” Allen asked, dazed.

Lavi clapped him on the shoulder. “Game’s over. Good on ya, nice poker face. Even I didn’t think you had the Full-House.”

“But…”

“Let’s get a couple drinks in you, yeah? The boss says you earned it. I’ll arrange an escort for you later.”

“Escort?”

“Eh, just as a precaution. I imagine some of the Noah Family members might be feeling a bit disgruntled.” They both glanced over to where Tyki was staring blankly at the table, his previous smug expression frozen on his face. Allen shivered.

As Lavi ushered him from the room, Allen passed by Cross and...one of the heads of the Noah Family? The man in the purple suit named Cyril, who narrowed his eyes at Allen even as he smiled thinly at him. Cross was all-teeth and gregariousness, passing around cigars directly from his suit jacket pocket. He didn’t look proud, exactly. More like he was pleased that his prize greyhound had won the race. Allen’s throat still felt tight. The invisible hand that had wrapped around it still lingering.

The set of false cards up his sleeves were sticking and cutting into his skin, his hairline now chilled from evaporated sweat, and he planned on drinking until he remembered absolutely nothing of this night, but then Road Camelot found him through the crowd.

Her short stature was shocking, considering she towered over him in every other way except in height. In this post-game context, he noticed now that her dress straps had curved edges — what was that called? _scalloped_ — that bit deliciously into her shoulders. She ran cool fingers along the edge of his forearm until her hand was grasping his in a sort of handshake.

“Well-played, Mr. Walker. Such a pleasure,” she said, voice like the dark sugar that had rimmed Allen’s pilfered _caipirinha_. Lavi left his side, gesturing that he would meet him back at the Black Order once he was done trading words with the Noah Family princess. Once the red-haired man had cleared the door, Road tugged against Allen’s palm and pulled him close enough that his nose knocked against one of her crystal earrings.

Her whisper glanced against the shell of his ear, gossamer light:

“ _The Eight and the Ten of Hearts._ ”

She pulled back and laughed one of her bell-chime laughs, turning and joining Tyki at the in-house bar as Cross Family members filtered out of the room and back out to the Black Order Bar. Allen had planned on drinking until he forgot most of the night, but now he had firm resolutions to drink until he lost all memories of poker itself, until he forgot what he knew of the game and its tiers. Because unless he was mistaken, Allen was quite sure the cards on the table had been Jack of Hearts, Nine of Clubs, Nine of Hearts, Seven of Hearts, Jack of Spades. Which meant that Road, who he’d expected of having a pair of Hearts in her hand, would _not_ have had a Flush, which his crooked Full-House had beaten.

Eight of Hearts and Ten of Hearts.  

If she was telling the truth, that meant that Road Camelot had possessed…

 _Straight Flush_ . Second most powerful hand in the game. The winning hand. The hand she folded. A hand that had beat Allen’s even _before_ he had switched the false River card.

If she told someone, anyone in her family, or even if she told Cross...If anyone found out that Allen had rightfully _lost_ that game…

“What can I get you, doll?” Somehow Fou was smirking at him from over the Black Order bar counter.

“I’m worse than dead,” he shivered.

Fou shrugged. “I don’t know that cocktail, but it sounds like it has Absinthe. Coming right up!”

Road's Hand

* * *

Allen woke to warmth. Warmth in his lungs, on his tongue, a pleasant burn working through his tired bones all the way down to his toes. He still hadn’t slept enough, but somehow he felt strangely satisfied.

Until a pointy, manicured nail poked into his jaw and he opened his eyes and saw his own imminent, impending mortality.

This…This was _so_ not happening.

Allen was going to die. He was going to die, and he wouldn’t know when (probably soon) or how (probably gruesomely) but he would certainly know why.

“Allen, do you have a spare towel so I can shower?”

Allen wanted to respond, but there was currently no oxygen in his brain because his heart had stopped pumping blood the moment he had awoken to his _completely unexpected_ companion.

“Allen?” Lenalee arched her brow. “Something wrong?”

Lenalee Lee was in his apartment. Lenalee Lee was in his _bed._ And from what little Allen’s brain could still process, she was naked. And Allen had no memory of any of it. _That’s_ what was wrong.

She was lounging on her side, the very picture of some sort of seductress in repose, the bed sheets — _his_ bed sheets — snug over her hip. Her hip. Allen squeezed his hand experimentally, and yes, that was his hand resting on her _bare_ hip, and that numbness in his other forearm...That was his arm trapped under her, curled around her in a sleep embrace.

Except Allen was neither sleeping or dreaming, despite what his previously thought to be above-average brain was communicating.  

Lenalee hummed. “You’re pretty cute first thing in the morning. I like the bedhead.” She leaned forward, the globes of her breasts pressing into his chest — _warm, bare, soft_ — and her lips were approaching his and all he could smell were oranges and jasmine…

Her lips pecked the tip of his nose, jolting him. “You look like a little bunny rabbit. Now. I could really use that towel. Lavi’s on his way over.”

_Lavi?_

Lenalee slipped from his arms and from under the sheets, stretching languorously towards the ceiling. Allen could only assume that she was speaking to him as she padded around his apartment wearing not a stitch of clothing and hunting for his elusive bath towels, but his brain was busy furiously cataloguing information: no tan lines, a smattering of cherry blossoms tattooed along her spine, impeccably fit, shaved, navel piercing, wait, if his eyeballs weren't outright deceiving him, were those little fingerprint bruises gripping around her hips?—

“Ah! Here it is,” Lenalee cried, holding up a towel from his laundry basket. Thankfully, the basket was full of clean laundry. “I’ll be back in a flash. Thanks again for letting me crash. Not that you had any say in the matter, I realize. I promise I’ll fix your door lock. But I couldn’t find your keys in your pockets! You’d already passed out, so I figured you wouldn’t mind if I caught some _zee_ ’s at your place.”

Wait.

“Wait. Hold on.” Allen held up a hand because god help him he needed to be able to hear this straight. Lenalee clearly didn't want him to process anything, because instead of wrapping his towel around herself, she simply turned, cocked a hip, hooked the towel over her shoulder, and gave him an unimpressed pout as if to say ‘well, _what_?’

Okaaaay. Well now he knew that her nipples, rosy pink, matched her bottom lip when she sucked it to one side in a pout.

Yes. This was all fine. “Let me get this straight. You broke into my apartment.” Nod. “Because I was passed out?” Nod. “And you wanted to...make sure I got home safe?” Nod. “And you stayed here because…?”

“Oh, well it was super late, and I needed a change of clothes before I could go out again.”

“Ah.” Allen blinked again, trying not to glance below her collarbone. “And you’re naked because…?”

She gave him a look like _he_ was the crazy one. “Uh, duh? It’s hot outside.”

Oh, of course, Allen. It’s hot outside.

“Yep! So I crashed here and Lavi’s coming over to bring me a change of clothes.” She propped her hand on a hip and tilted her eyebrow up, as if to say, _All caught up to speed?_ And at his slightly mollified expression, she turned on her heel and went to go wash, _naked,_ in his shower, with his shampoo, _naked_ —

“Wait,” he said. “What happened to the clothes you were wearing when you brought me?” Allen had the vaguest recollection Lenalee by Cross’s side last night, wearing a tight midnight blue dress. Chinese-style...what was that called. A _qipao_. But Lenalee was already singing the chorus of an upbeat, poppy song from his shower.

Allen cast around for any kind of dress that might be laying around in his apartment, but he saw no traces of it, or even of shoes, or undergarments.

_What the hell?_

Poking around his apartment only produced more bizarre findings.

Yes, his lock was broken, but rather than the mechanism itself being jammed from any sort of lockpick or device, it was completely splintered away from the door itself, as though someone had literally kicked the lock off his door. His front hallway was also suspiciously clean—all his sneakers and work boots lined up neatly for once, no mud or dust or various front-door litter, not even wood splinters that surely must have come from the busted door jamb. Lastly, a strange...tacky scent, almost, was hovering around his doorway. Almost like something had been burned. And sure enough, when Allen peeked outside his front doorway, his little hallway trash can was full of the blackened remains of _something_ , wait—was that a scrap of midnight-blue silk?

“Top o’ the mornin’, babe.” Lavi’s rich voice floated down the hallway to him, carrying a leather satchel of what he assumed where Lenalee’s change of clothes. That was the only sane deduction he could make unfortunately, which did nothing to explain why _Lavi_ had Lenalee’s clothes, why Lenalee’s dress was burned to ashes in his hallway trash can, or why Lenalee was even naked in his apartment in the first place.

“It’s still morning?” Allen asked instead of the six trillion other questions he wanted to ask. As far as he could recall, last night’s poker game hadn’t even ended until close to four in the morning, when the Black Order had officially closed, opened up for the clandestine Cross Family members only.

“Eleven-sharp. Figured I’d give you and Lena enough time to get ready before your shift.”

“My...shift?”

There was that look again, like Allen was the crazy one. “Your shift at noon? Sunday brunch rush? Chop chop, you’re still in last night’s clothes.”

And sure enough, when Allen looked down he was in the same dark jeans and buttoned oxford, now heavily rumpled and smelling like...was that _absinthe_ ? Well, there went Allen’s fantasy that at least his drunk-self had experienced a night of passion with Lenalee. Now he had only the cold comforts: the absence of any hangover (perhaps because he was still mildly intoxicated), the absence of _immediate_ death (though the possibility definitely still lingered), and the traces of orange and jasmine still clinging to his sleep-warm skin as he faced another shift at a bar owned by a man who had barely spared his life the night previous, all while operating on a month’s backlog of sleep deprivation.

“I don’t suppose that you have in that bag whatever it was you were going to kill me with if I’d lost last night, do you?” Allen asked Lavi.

“Christ, Allen, I wasn’t going to kill you regardless.” Lavi said. Allen breathed a sigh of relief. “I was going to have Lenalee do it.” Lavi laughed, but somehow it didn’t feel like he was joking.

“Oh.” He scrubbed a hand down his sleep-worn face. “Cool.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I added the pictures of the poker hands for ease of understanding. Lmk if they don't make sense or detract from the story, and also feel free to ask or comment if any part of the match or poker rules in general seem unclear to you - I'm happy to walk you through it :)


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